I'd Rather Live in Buxton

I'd Rather

£&i/e in ^utfon

ffd ^atfie/t S&i/e m ^uvtfon ^ Karen Shadd-Evelyn ^

Simon & Pierre

The writing of this manuscript and the publication of this book were made possible by support from several sources. We would like to acknowledge the generous assistance and ongoing support of The Canada Council, The Book Publishing Industry Development Program of the Department of Communications, The Ontario Arts Council, and The Ontario Publishing Centre of the Ministry of Culture, Tourism and Recreation. Kirk Howard, President; Marian M. Wilson, Publisher

Copyright © 1993 by Karen Shadd-Evelyn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., a subsidiary of Dundurn Press Limited. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Reprography Collective. ISBN 0-88924-242-9 12345•87654 Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., a subsidiary of Dundurn Press Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Shadd-Evelyn, Karen, 1958I'd rather live in Buxton ISBN 0-88924-242-9 1. North Buxton (Ont.) - Fiction. 2. North Buxton (Ont.) - Poetry. 3. Blacks - Ontario - North Buxton - Fiction. 4. Blacks - Ontario - North Buxton - Poetry. I. Title. PS8587.H34I4 1993 C813'.54 C93 095036-4 PR9199.3.S43I4 1993 Photographs: Photograph of The Liberty Bell courtesy Raleigh Township Centennial Museum, North Buxton, Ontario. All other photographs are used by permission of the author. General Editor: Marian M. Wilson Editor: Jean Paton Printed and bound in Canada: Metropole Litho Inc., Quebec Order from Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., care of Dundurn Press Limited Dundurn Distribution 2181 Queen Street East 73 Lime Walk Suite 301 Headington, Oxford Toronto, Canada England M4E 1E5 OX3 7AD

Dundurn Press Limited 1823 Maryland Avenue P.O. Box 1000 Niagara Falls, N.Y. U.S.A. 14302-1000

"ITkis book is dedicated to tke memory of Robby Skane Robinson

in tke kope tkdt an improved understanding of tke common denominators of kwfrvanity/ and an appreciation for its differences, migkt somekow abate tke existence op tke racis^n tkat took kim from us/ and tke injustice tkat pardoned it.

Sleep sweetly, Skaka.

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find the lost loved ones they had left behind and pass on the lessons they had learned of self-sufficiency, and self-determination, in Buxton's classroom. Still, it remains a community which has preserved the cooperative way of life with which it was begun, and remembers its role, and its roots, in North American Black history, and in the history of Canada. The culture of Buxton's citizens, though for the most part indistinguishable from that of the majority of Canadians of this region, still holds some unique qualities as it functions as a haven for its community within the Canadian mosaic. The support systems of this "society within a society" emanate from the spirit of the people, cultivated by an upbringing which may be unique to the particular shared circumstances of their background which brought them here. My parents gave each of their six children a copy of Look to the North Star, by Victor Ullman, the year I was twelve. I didn't read mine until I was thirty-two. It was the story of Reverend King's life, but more than that it was the story of our ancestors. It was the story of how we had come to this place, and what this place had once been. The treasure I had unwittingly hoarded until I was old enough to appreciate its value unfolded the drama behind those facets of life I had grown up taking for granted. Suddenly I could see the patterns, the reasons, the whys and wherefores of Buxton's traditions, the customs we learned as children having grown from that early settlement. The home-centred lifestyle, the emphasis on education, the rarity of alcohol, the strict upbringing and the dominance of religion in our lives, were outlined in the pages of this marvellous revelation, and had sprung from our forebear's foresight. The inexorable bonds of kinship that had grown out of this way of life were like anchors in a strong wind: we bound ourselves with, and to them. And we had just considered ours ordinary lives! The presence of these qualities of life in the settlement had been remarked by a daughter of one of those early settlers, Hattie Rhue Hatchett, in her poem Memories of the Old Home, which reads in part:

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TTkey were 'mong tke early settlers Wken tke land was busk and bogs Wken you kad kard work to travel Climbing fence and walking logs, Wken your devious parkway led you TVliles and miles from off your course Wken tke oxen team was surer TTkan tke spanking team or korse Wken g^eat ice-|-ields lay before you yVft you^ root-steps breaking tk^ougk TTkus tkey laboured yo^ tkei^ loved ones Did dea^ 3^ane and W i l l i a m T^kwe Cooing ro^tk to sell and pu^ckase ^Jn young iSkatkam town so rai^ getting sokrvetking tkat was useful T~o^ eack tender/ loving ca^e We keld mom and evening service TTkose we^e kappy moments all Wken tke family assembled 'Round tke preside

great and small;

y\nd we sent our voices ringing LAp to £^od, in prayer and praise J\/\c\nY prayers went up before "Him J7n tkis kokrve of rorkner days iUn deep fancy 3 see A^otker >At tke old loom weaving now Witk ker -f-ace lit up witk sunski^e yAnd a senile upon ker brow. y\nd our fatker in tke big woods Pelling trees witk massive blows— •How tkey conquered all tkeir kardskips Only £^od in keaven knows

This emphasis on home and family life, on self-sufficiency, on religion, and on education, had evolved in Reverend King's time, and was still prevalent in the Buxton of my childhood,

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several generations removed from the hardships of which Mrs. Hatchett wrote. It is my aim to capture some of the extraordinary spirit of this ordinary place. It is only a typical small Canadian town now, but the factors that shaped its history moulded our future in unique ways. The unsung lives of these everyday people resulted from the so-called "experiment" in the colonization of their ancestors, who were survivors of the American system of slavery. There were an estimated forty thousand escaped slaves in Canada when the civil war broke out in 1861. The stories of these families are many and varied. I have attempted here to continue the saga of a few of the ones who landed in Buxton, and put their roots down. The stories are meant to define the character of the community, rather than to depict actual occurrences. They are not meant to be definitive of Buxton or its people, but rather of their essence, as seen through the eyes of one who drew strength from its solace. Some details have been changed, a few created, many omitted, in an effort to convey the spirit of the place, that special quality that draws its people to return, and compels them to think of it, fondly and always, as home.

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Ci/tca 1870-^0 ^/timei's Ca/t/tiage '-Ride He always wore his Sunday best when he came into town. Homespuns were fine for the farm, but now that he was a free man, he intended his neighbours to see him looking like one. A horse and open buggy might be fine for the rest of the folks around, too; but his spare moments for two entire winters had been taken with felling, chopping, bundling and selling extra firewood toward the purchase of the fine conveyance beneath him now. He preferred the elegance of his carriage, the matched pair of geldings stepping smartly before him, his wife and two daughters looking sedately out the fringe-trimmed windows, wide bonnets framing prim faces. He snapped the reins dramatically at the precise instant of his arrival onto Buxton Square. You never saw him drive that carriage without his trademark cigar clamped firmly between the firm-set jaw. He removed it politely to salute those he passed in the street, even doffing his dapper top hat to the ladies, his expression never wavering as he returned cigar and hat each in turn to its appointed place. He never knew, of course, that I had had occasion to visit his pantry once. When his daughter asked me to reach down a jar of dill pickles from the top shelf, I had seen that cigar in the covered glass jar, where it awaited her father's next carriage ride to town.

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Ct/ica 191 S-'cJbcWy ^o/t 'cJwo The snow had made her bare foot numb, and the other, covered by a trailing and sodden woollen stocking, only slightly less so when the child arrived at the kitchen door of the Rices, their Irish neighbours. She was only short moments behind her older sister, who had celebrated her seventh birthday just last week. The Rice farm was almost a half mile from their own kitchen door, or at least where the door had stood the last time Dorothy had dared to glance back over her shoulder. The flames had been licking their way toward it from the upper outside wall. She had been chasing Hazel around the dining room table when her brother's shout had come from the upper level, where the older boys slept. Fire was no stranger to this family, who had lost countless crops to the ravages of cinders thrown from the wheels of the railroad cars that cut across their fields. Galvanized into action, the older members of the household (and there were many, for she was second youngest of twelve children) had immediately begun a bucket brigade from the water pump at the kitchen sink to the bedroom wall, which was by now fully ablaze. It was soon realized to be a futile effort, and they turned their energies instead to saving what they could. Hazel, until now mesmerized by the activity, had seen Mother carry the baby, cradle and all, out into the snow and set him under the tree near the laneway. She decided it was time to make her exit. She'd still been wearing her shoes, and had stopped only long enough to snatch her coat from its hook by the mantle, pushing her arms into the sleeves as she ran for the side door, and off down the laneway to the road.

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Five year old Dorothy, who followed Hazel everywhere, knew that if she stopped to put on her shoes, or even her coat, Hazel would be long gone, and she'd be left to run alone in the dark. She didn't know where they were going, but she knew they were going together, and dashed out after her sister. She'd soon determined they must be going to the Rice's. There was nothing much else in that direction. Beyond that she could not think, because one stocking had come loose, and down, and off, and she had not stopped to retrieve it. While the rest of her body was stiffening with the cold, making running difficult and jerky, the icy pain in her feet had become only a mild tingling in the stockinged foot, and none at all in the bare one. The little girls were not yet aware of what had caused the fire that left their large family lodged with various relatives for the rest of that winter. They had pushed the bed they shared up close to the chimney the night before, and slept warm and cosy from the heat of the dying embers in the grate below. But when the fireplace had been fully stoked and lit after supper the next evening, the bedclothes against the chimney had been set ablaze by the force of its full heat. By the time their mother arrived with the baby at the Rice's, where she and the three younger children would spend the next several nights, Hazel and Dorothy had been dried and wrapped in heavy blankets by the fireplace, and the stinging that had made her cry when they first began to warm had almost completely gone from the soles of her little feet. The toes still hurt a bit, but the pain was ebbing. Mr. Rice had gone to help their dad and the older boys keep the embers away from the outbuildings, but the house was a rubble of smoke and ashes, the few furnishings they'd managed to carry out sitting forlornly under the branches of the big old elm nearby.

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Mrs. Rice made Dorothy drink a toddy, made with whisky and hot water, before putting her to bed. It was supposed to keep her from getting sick from her exposure to the cold, Mrs. Rice told her mother. She'd made one for the baby, too, but he refused to drink after the first sip. Dorothy wished she could refuse too, but swallowed it under Mother's scrutiny. Her mother carried the baby in one arm; the other hand held his glass of the nasty stuff as they followed Mrs. Rice to the room that had been vacated for them. Some time during the night the baby woke, as he always did, for a drink of water. Mother had known he would, and retrieved the glass she'd set on the wash stand near the bed. Owen drank the toddy down without even a whimper of protest, lay down and went immediately back to his slumber. Neither child was any the worse for the chill they'd suffered that night. The remedy had fulfilled its promise, and by spring, when their father began to rebuild, Owen was walking, and followed Dorothy everywhere.

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Ci/ica 1950-...LAnd a Qood 'dTiwe QAJas 9^ad by u*$ W/ien Buxton had a good time, it was had by all, and the white folks round the township soon knew by word of mouth when the next street dance would see the village jumping. They came at first as spectators, hesitant to mingle, or perhaps afraid their presence was unwelcome. But detecting no hostility, the music proved infectious, and their faces soon filled out the missing squares. The fiddlers were fiddling, the guitar picker twanging as the square dance caller called out to the pairs. "Now swing your partner, do si do Round the circle now you go Allemande left and step up light Get another partner from the right Allemande right now and don't be late Step up the middle and close the gate."

The music floating out over the summer night carried the throaty-voiced commands directing the dancers, full skirts swirling over yards of crinoline, through the Virginia Reel and on into the Kentucky Running Set before taking a break. Joining her husband at the soft drink stand, she heard his companion, a fellow from out Fletcher way who stopped into the store quite often, but had never before been to one of the dances, offering his humble opinion. "I'll be back. I'm having a great time here. But my God, Ira, that woman of yours!" Like most newcomers, she knew it would take him some time to adjust to a female calling the sets. It was not a new reaction, and her hearty laughter rang out with her husband's

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as the fellow turned sheepishly, following the direction of Ira's eyes, now twinkling with mischief, to discover her standing there behind him. Crimson-faced, he soon joined in their laughter, and the three of them shared a round of the fruit punch she'd dubbed Rutabaga Slop.

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^Betu/ecn tJie 8th and 98 Between tke 8tk and 98, "Two kigkways of renown, y\n empty stretck down centre road LArvveils a tiny town. vUt's just a village, really, Vvke.^e tke yolk are. commonplace, ;And tke action ordinary, 7^v.nd li|-e keeps a quiet pace. CJt's only small tov^n Canada, TTke sa^ne as anywke^e. A/lost o^dina^y kinds o|-tkings yWe all tkat you'll |-ind tke^e."Cke^e's notking to ^e^na^k it. C7t's just a patck of soil Wkere -f-a^Kns sti^etck out ^ov Kniles between 7\nd common people toil. "Uke^e's no g^and ai^ckitecture, /SJo land^narks |-o>* impact. Jn -pact, it's -flat and featureless 7^.nd barely on tke map.

'~Ds only koines you'll see tkere, "Two ckurckes and a store, jA kail, park, and museum; Jt could be quite a bore.

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/\)o metropolis of factories. Streets all rolled up at nigkt. Don't blink or you will miss it. AAi^e's tke first Kouse on tn.e. rigKt.

C7 tidied tke. living elsewke^e,, So C7 know wh,e-^e.o|- CT speak. '~Uis tke essence or tkis little town TTkat makes tke bland unique.

T~or tkis st^etck oy land is 13uxton, y\nd no ^natter wke>*e you ^oam ~C\\e. current coining from tke place Will draw your spirit kome.

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Qlnc^e £/ta The village of North Buxton was home to slightly over one hundred residents as I was growing up. We considered ourselves to be among that number, although technically we lived outside the village proper, an empty mile down the usually deserted highway which, when it reached Buxton, functioned as Main Street for about three-quarters of a mile, before becoming the highway again. Once the centre of a thriving Black community known as the Elgin Settlement, Buxton's population had, over generations, been reduced mostly to residents with young families, or people close to retirement age. For anyone in between, it was a place you left after high school, returning at least annually on Labour Day, and perhaps settling back there to raise your own family, or, failing that, when it was time to retire. Being a small and loosely organized community, there was no need in Buxton for any sort of hierarchy. Back in 1850, when the little village was busy becoming the bustling Elgin Settlement, a five-member Court of Arbitration had been elected to handle any disputes which arose. But in its first two-year term there were only five cases to be heard, and its time became increasingly occupied with community matters, celebrations, emergencies, industrialization, and the general operations of the settlement. It had become the governing body during the boom years. Now, however, community business was conducted mostly through word of mouth and general consensus. Buxton had no city hall, no city council, because, of course, it fell so far from being a city. Even the designation of Town was above its aspirations. There was a Police Village a few miles

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up the road, so designated because its contingent of OPP officers patrolled the township from their headquarters there. But Buxton was only a village, and even that designation was not official recognition, but only the way those of us who lived there referred to it. Buxton had no organized government, no official system of decision making, no delegated or elected officers. We had no mayor. But we did have Uncle Ira. Uncle Ira was my father's brother, and the resemblance was unmistakable, and becoming more so as they grew older. Both copper-brown faces were seamed with the lines of laughter, and the lines that come with the task of raising large families. They were reputed to have been quite popular with the young ladies in their youth, and both faces still bore evidence that reputation was justified. They were of average height and build. Daddy was perhaps a bit broader of shoulder because his business was one of physical labour, while Uncle Ira's was more of a service occupation. The brothers used to cut each other's hair on the rare occasions when barbering was required. Since they both bore exactly the same shiny brown scalp, they knew best how they liked the hair which clung persistently to the edges, the black and mostly grey fringe grown long on one side and swept over the dome. The only difference was that while Daddy's was often covered by the engineer's cap he wore on the job, Uncle Ira's was usually visible as he attended to the patrons of his general store. The only store in Buxton, it was also the main source of information, gossip, and entertainment for most of the inhabitants. We children considered it the only place worthy of note in the entire village. It was at Uncle Ira's store that we congregated, when we congregated at all. It was there that we spent our nickels and pennies, selecting carefully from the

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variety of licorice, bubblegum, and penny candy kept in large glass jars on the pock-marked counter. And if one of us was down on our luck, and managed the right woebegone expression, Uncle Ira would quietly slip a "sample" into a small brown hand, receiving a grateful smile and undying gratitude in return. I shall never forget the day I decided that helping myself to a piece of Double Bubble when his back was turned really wasn't such a bad thing. After all, he'd surely have gotten around to giving me one eventually. I left the store shortly thereafter, waving goodbye to my friends and shouting back along the road to them until they were out of earshot. Humming and skipping along, chewing my Double Bubble, and occasionally stopping to examine some flora or fauna along the way, I made my way down the mile or so of road to my home. The teenage brother of one of my friends passed by on his new motorcycle, stopped, turned and came back to me. He offered me a ride home. I wasn't even tempted. He persisted, determined to show off his new possession. I declined. Though I'd never even been this close to a motorcycle before, I knew what Mom's reaction would be if I entered the laneway on the back of one. So, thanking him politely, and watching with more than a little regret as he sped off, I continued my walk-skip-walk, feeling the selfsatisfaction of knowing what a model of good behaviour I presented. I was still humming as I entered the kitchen door. The look on Mom's face stopped the note in mid-vibration and I mentally scrambled over the terrain of the day, searching for my error. I had not accepted the motorcycle ride. I was home on time. I had not forgotten to do my chores before I left. There must be some mistake. "Where did you get the bubblegum?" There was no

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feigned innocence to the question. It was straight accusation. I had completely forgotten. In fact, it was so normal for me to come home from Uncle Ira's chewing gum that it didn't occur to me to remember how I had come by it, until that moment. I was momentarily struck dumb, not by guilt or fear of punishment, but simply by wonder at the laws of the universe, the simple impossible irony of the coincidence that she would pick this day to ask this question, which she never had asked in all the days I had legitimately returned from Uncle Ira's chewing gum. Could she tell just from looking at me that I had stolen it? There was much I didn't understand about adults, but this was an entirely new and unfathomable concept. Her question was not repeated, but my mother's glare demanded an answer. I opted for the truth, knowing the alternative which came to mind would only escalate the situation from disaster to catastrophe, for obviously some Higher Power at work here had enabled her to see things which it was impossible for her to have seen. I took my spanking, and returned the country mile to pay Uncle Ira and apologize for my sin. Though I did not bear him any grudge, I remained in awe of him, for this as much as any other reason, for the rest of my childhood, spending much time trying to unravel the mystery Eventually I simply came to assume that he, and my mother right along with him, was in possession of powers beyond my understanding. Uncle Ira was among the few men in the village who enjoyed the company of its children. Having many of his own, one would think he would not have encouraged our presence, but he entertained and encouraged us to be about the store, even though we had rarely any significant commerce to conduct there. Sometimes my mother would send me on my bicycle with

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a dollar bill tucked into my sock, and instructions to return directly with four loaves of bread and the daily newspaper. I remember once lingering so long with the other kids gathered there over Uncle Ira's antics, that I forgot what I had come for, and rode all the way home without ever once feeling that I had had a purpose for the trip other than to spend the nickel of my own, which I had taken along for my favourite, shoestring licorice. It was the second spanking I received in connection with Uncle Ira's store, and the second time I had to return the long mile straightaway. And still it was my favourite place to be. I particularly loved to watch, from the safe distance beyond which we were not allowed to go, Uncle Ira cutting lunch meat with the machine of which nightmares were made. I stared in fascinated horror as his hand moved rhythmically from the very edge of the spinning blade to pluck the slice of bologna (correcting our "baloney" pronunciation with the proper "bal-owe-na") before it fell, place it on the growing pile of slices laid out on top of the brown-paper lined scale, and dart perilously close again to the razor sharp and rapidly whirling blade in time for the next slice. He never missed a beat, and the spectacle that such a miss would provide rivetted my eyes to his hands. I used to surreptitiously check the tips of his fingers, sure that at some point the machine would get the better of him. I never found evidence of it, though. Those deft fingers flew over the brown wrapping paper, creating with rapid precision the neatly wrapped bundle and pulling down string from where it was threaded over our heads along the length of the counter, tying and breaking the string, all the while carrying on a conversation with the housewife who had ordered the meat. He was a wonder! Uncle Ira enjoyed our open-mouthed fascination as he took an egg from the paper trays kept in the glassed-in

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Sfco/te and 2da/ie u4&fce — Just try one, Mel. They're soooo good. — No thanks. — Just one cookie! You won't get in trouble. I had one. She won't notice just a couple missing. — Nope. Mom said not to eat them, 'cause they're for the bake sale, and you're gonna be in trouble when she gets home. — How's she gonna know? There's lots. She didn't count them or anything. Okay, but you don't know what you're missing. They're still warm, and the chocolate chips are all melted. I'm gonna have yours then, if you won't have one. — Okay, but I'm just having one, Julie. If anybody gets in trouble, it's gonna be you. Hey! You already had one! — I'm just having one more. She won't miss three little cookies. cjk c£> c£>

— Ooooooooh, you're gonna get it now! Just wait 'til Mom gets home, Julie. There's only . . . one, two, three, four . . . five left. You said you were only having two. You're gonna geeeeeetiiiiit!!! c£, c£> c£>

— WHAT HAPPENED TO THOSE COOKIES? KATHARINE AMY, JULIE, MEL ANY!!! IN THE KITCHEN, RIGHT NOW You all heard me say not to touch a one of those cookies! Whoever did is in serious trouble. Well? Somebody better tell me, or you're all in trouble. — I don't know, Mom. — Me neither. I was upstairs doing my homework. — Julie ate them. I told her not to, but she did anyway. Said she was just gonna have two, but when I went outside, she ate almost all of them, except those. — Uh-uh! Not just me, Mom. Melany, you had some too!

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9k S&ttfe eg/town CfcuAcfc in die We "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord/7 ranked right up there with "spare the rod and spoil the child/' in Daddy's lexicon of lines to live by. Sunday mornings saw a procession of the resident saints and sinners, regardless of age or inclination, trooping out to pile into the family station wagon, headed for the little brown church nestled on the curve of one of Buxton's two crescents, or "back streets," as we called them. A vestige of the early settlement, religion was of major importance to most of Buxton's families. Reverend William King, a Presbyterian minister who had founded this refuge for fugitives of the American slavery system by bringing the fifteen slaves he had inherited to initiate this community, was deeply religious. He instilled that spirituality in his charges as he guided them toward self-sufficiency. And, like parched sponges, our ancestors soaked it up. The God who had sustained them through times of torment and degradation was also the God who had, through Reverend King, led them to this land of freedom, and they were eager to show their gratitude. In learning to read, they began with the Bible. Sunday services were held in King's home temporarily, but as soon as all had adequate shelter, their first church was raised in a community effort. Not restricting them to reserved Presbyterianism, King supported their efforts to establish the Methodist and Baptist denominations active now. These, he knew, provided an outlet for the more demonstrative forms of worship consistent with the African background of the congregation. The respect for worship and family attendance at service instilled in them by

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King had survived the passing generations to become the prevailing climate in most Buxton households. So when my sister Mel, ten years my senior, announced one Sunday morning that she was not going to church that day, I stopped mid-stride to watch the fireworks. Sure enough, my mouth was soon hanging open in amazement. It was not, however, the anticipated intensity of Daddy's reaction that had me dumbstruck. Rather, it was incredulity at his placid acquiescence. I resumed my errand, muttering my six-year-old version of a diatribe on the vagaries of life, and was soon swinging my feet under the third pew to the opening strains of "Holy, Holy, Holy" as the service began. The announcements, responsive reading, prayers, and sermon echoed through the little church and bounced off my consciousness, which was occupied with its own meanderings. Only the punctuating "Amen" or melodic "Well well" of Deacon Niles penetrated my thoughts as I admired his sing-song rhythm and tones. Though a full-fledged Baptist, our preacher was no gesticulating shouter, and his monotone delivery set me straight to daydreaming. But the music brought me back again. U m living on the mountain LAndemeatk th,e cloudless sky

("Praise God!" interjected at this point by the more energetic of the mostly middle-aged congregation.) CJ'm d r i n k i n g p*om tke fountain ~Tkat neve>* skall >*un dr*y Ok yes, U m feasting on tke manna FVom a bountiful supply T~o^ CT am dwelling in 13eulak land.

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So, for several weeks that winter, Vicky and I were a twosome, and Lucille's absence created a new pecking order. The triad had worked well, because neither Lucille nor I resented Vicky's leadership when we were followers together. Being the sole sheep, however, quickly wore thin, and the friction of that resentment soon produced a flame. Never having had her authority challenged before, Vicky handled mutiny among the ranks in a completely predictable manner: she beat the crap out of me. Since this in itself was a new experience for me, I was ill prepared to defend myself, and quite ineffectual at it. Fortunately, though, Vicky didn't inflict any serious damage, and, as is often the way with little girls, our relationship probably would have returned to normal: having been put in my place, I would have been prepared to accept that place, with new respect for my leader. We had attracted a small audience among those in the schoolyard who had noticed the fray, and I would have preferred to be beaten to a pulp than to be seen as a weakling. It was unthinkable for me to turn and run. Never having had to participate in an actual fight before, I wanted only for it to be over, but had no idea how to make that happen. Vicky solved that problem for me with her next action. Hauling me close to her menacing scowl by the front of my sweater, she growled loud enough for my ears only, "Haven't you had enough, nigger?" punctuating the question by throwing me to the ground. She truly had had the last word, and her last word had a more powerful effect upon its quarry than she would ever be able to grasp. She had not managed to draw a tear or force a retreat with all her physical effort. She was baffled, therefore, and perhaps a bit frightened, when I burst into hysterical tears, dispersing my audience at the emotional display. I had heard the word before. The older kids often threw it

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at each other in jest, out of earshot of any adult. I knew its connotations, but regarded it as just another swear word. Until it had been used as a weapon to put me back in my place, and beyond, I had not known its power. My brother soon heard what had happened, and before the week was out Vicky's older brother paid for her transgression. He was hefted over the schoolyard fence and into a pile of cow manure in the adjoining pasture. Vicky would have followed, except my brother was strictly forbidden to hurt a girl. Eventually Lucille returned to school, and though the shame of impetigo followed her back, my humiliation at Vicky's hands was equally with me. We never spoke of either. Welcoming each other with the understanding that only fellow outcasts can appreciate, we renewed our former friendship, to Vicky's exclusion. I felt some small satisfaction in my brother's vengeance. But I was never again to underestimate the power in that one word. I came to understand, and thus negate, its effectiveness later in life. But never to deny it. With the casual utterance, I had become aware of a world beyond my universe; a white sky where black stars would have to shine doubly bright just to be seen. It was an indicator of that second set of unspoken rules. My eyes were opened to the world beyond Buxton's borders, and I began to see the bigger picture.

58 !7 kea^ youK* voice across tke fields across tke miles across tke yea^s tk^ougk tke po^ests and tke tears

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3 kear it still and still iU kear it

Dong. T3ong. oong. ^/ou are tke voice of 7\)ortkern .Star Beckoning,, your call rings far across tke river over tke. KnouKvtaiKv tk^ougk tke. forest into tke swamp tk^owgkout tke plantation past tke Big House at last to tke qua^te^s

Come. Come. Come. We skall in glad response rejoice <Sack time we kear your booKning voice T~or in tke fullness of tke sound We kear tke clank of co|-f-le irons Dropping empty to tke. ground no more tke rattling ckains we kear or crack oj- wkip no gavel on tke auction block nor moan from kold of yoetid skip no yelp of kounds at keels in fligkt no scream of terror in tke nigkt C\one. Clone. Clone.

your eckoedy kwtrv^ning ajtervoice Reverberates witk migkty swell ~Cwo tkousand voices liaised to tell ~Cke irvessage of tke freedo^n bell

•=£> 63 =£

Sometime CT'll climb tke stains to see tke clacked old -pace of Liberty wkose call rarvg first to welcome me ;And to proclaim to all We kave arrived. Welcome. Welcome. Welcome "Home.

^ c£

Raleigh, C.W., 17th December, 1850 To the Coloured Inhabitants of Pittsburgh . . . We are delighted at all times to hear from the friends that we have left in a land of pretended freedom, and although separated in body, we are present with you in spirit; The bell has been raised to the place erected for it, and for the first time the silence of our forest was broken on last Sabbath morn, by its joyful peals inviting us to the house of God . . . we trust that while its cheerful peal invites us to the house of prayer, we will then remember our brethren who are in less favorable circumstances; and our constant prayer will be that... the power of the oppressor may be broken, and that those who have long been held in bondage may be set free.

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^Painted S^ady Qowg 9^owe Her face was pale tan, the overlapping network of folds and creases suggesting there had been more fullness in her youth. A definitive layer of liquid foundation, dusted with pressed powder, deepened her natural skin tone to an almost-brown, and high on each cheekbone, a carefully precise circle of Dusky Plumrose. Her eyes had been outlined in Charcoal, shadowed Royal Blue, highlighted Clearly Coral. Her mouth, perfectly bowshaped still, was traced in Passion Pink. The earrings she had chosen this particular Sunday were a quarter-sized circle of opalescent blue, rather plain to offset the large blue flower on the side of her pillbox hat. The matching brooch pinned her white lace shawl closed over the pale blue blouse. White gloves covered the wrinkled hands folded primly on the lap of her paisley skirt. Her eyes never wavered from the picture of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane hanging behind the pulpit as, head tilted to one side, she listened to the preacher wrapping up this day's sermon. Not until the organist struck the opening chords of "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" did animation transform her face. Without visible effort her voice was fully an octave above the rest, head rocking from side to side with the hymn's rhythm. Her pleasure was evident, hands tapping in time on her cloth covered thighs. Her singing lifted the folds, separated the deeper creases of her face, where the foundation had failed to penetrate, making a road map of the carefully crafted canvas. At the close of the service, she took her granddaughter's arm and they left their customary pew, second from the front,

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right hand side, making their way slowly down the narrow aisle. She turned to each of the congregation who called out to her, stopping to chat while her granddaughter shifted from foot to foot, looking shyly toward the floor. The pair made slow progress out the door and down the short block to her home. The granddaughter stopped long enough to see her safely inside the door before continuing down the road to where her mother awaited her. The old woman closed the door behind her, pressing the lock simultaneously as was her habit. She turned to the closet beside her and, removing hat pin, then hat, and replacing the pin, she placed the hat in the empty spot on the shelf that it had vacated that morning. The other six hats of various styles lined up beside it each boasted a large and rather garish floral arrangement on side, front or back. The eighth, her Easter bonnet, was in a hatbox in the corner. It housed an entire bouquet, entwined with ribbons and delicate lace. Using the door frame for support, she stepped out of her gleaming black patent pumps. As she bent to align them neatly in their appointed place on the closet floor, she did not see the reflected face which shone back at her. Turning toward the kitchen, her right arm stretched instinctively above her to lightly grasp between thumb and forefinger the string threaded there to guide her steps. As it crossed another that led from the hallway to her bedroom, her hand floated, momentarily lifting at the intersection, and expertly reconnecting. At the kitchen door, she passed her hand deftly over the web of strings beginning there, determining third from the left, which would take her to the stove. The kettle, still partially filled from breakfast, soon whistled its readiness. She had, meanwhile, replaced the lace shawl with a more practical cardigan. The soft swish of the

c£> 67 c^b

slippers she'd retrieved from the bedroom closet accompanied her humming as she followed her string to the table. Preparing to pour, one finger looped over the edge of the cup to sense the approaching warmth when the tea neared its rim. Beneath their shade and shadow, her sightless eyes fixed, unfocused, on the water-spotted print, a miniature of the one that hung in the church, but faded to pale pastels in its years of hanging over her kitchen sink. Barely discernible over the vibration of the aging refrigerator, sporadic snatches of the lyrics mingled with the tinkle of spoon on china. "I come to the garden alone/' ping ping ping "while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear falling on my ear . . . hmm, hmm, hmm hmm, hmmmmm, hmm hmm/' And He walked with her, and He talked with her, and He told her she was His own. And she followed one last string, her hand dropping from it as the riotous colour of His flower garden took her breath away.

=£> 68 •=£

^ome to ^urfon Wkere kave you gone, my people, my family? Plown from tke nest/ on strong wings, but alone. C\ov\e. to green tree tops, ok ckildren of 13uxton.

But with each retelling, I cringe inwardly at what I must presume was my dread panic. You see, while I don't recall this particular incident, I do indeed recall many similar encounters with the fiendish bird. So, knowing the rooster, and my siblings, I have no doubt that the story is true. He was an ordinary looking bird, I suppose, to anyone who happened to see him strutting nonchalantly on his rounds between the muddy garden, which functioned as his insect pantry, and the chicken coop, which was his harem. But to me he was a vicious murderer, or at the very least, one who was capable of fowl play, and would think nothing of pecking my eyes out if I allowed him to get that close. Soon after his arrival on our farm, he singled me out as the smallest and therefore most logical choice over whom to exert his authority. And exert it he did. After the first few encounters, I carefully avoided his presence, refusing even to venture outdoors unaccompanied. For a time my rooster tales were considered flights of fancy, for, with a cleverness I could not conceive the beast possessing, he feigned disinterest if I was not alone. But gaining the upper hand made him cocky, and soon enough his treachery was revealed. My father rounded a corner unexpectedly one day to find the bird hot on my trail, and none too happy to be caught at it. The shamefaced grin-and-shrug combination he seemed to affect at having been found trying to manoeuvre me into a corner, did nothing to delay the swiftness of Daddy's boot applied to his tail feathers. I was elated to finally have had a witness to my plight, and my father, as always, was my knight in shining armour. Relief, though, was short-lived. Landing unceremoniously from his squawking kick-off, both dignity and feathers considerably ruffled, the rooster stalked away to brood upon the significance of this latest development. Now the old bird

=£> 71 •=£

was ready to take the game as serious business. He may have toyed with me before, but after feeling my father's wrath on my account, he had a score to settle. Though our family farm was of a good size, as was our family, we were not farmers, me least of all. Since the arrival of the rooster, my mother had given up trying to get me to feed the chickens. With the time and effort it took to force me out the door, she could have done the job herself several times over. So the chore was relegated to one of those older sisters who had found my helpless flight so uproariously amusing. A just retribution, and perhaps the reason Sis now feels obligated to remind me of the rooster at every opportunity. My father was in the business of moving buildings, and so our fields were rented out to local farmers on a sharecrop basis. But every available nook and cranny that was not given to growing things was crowded with trucks, machinery, steel beams, wheels, and all the other necessary odds and ends required to move a house or a barn from one place to another. In short, innumerable hiding places where one very angry rooster could conceal himself until I emerged. I would quite cheerfully have remained indoors forever. To this day I am not an outdoor type of person. This may seem odd for one who was raised on a farm, and I think this particular rooster may have had a lot to do with it. In any case, the laws of the land quite clearly stated that, rooster or no rooster, I had to go to school. And this rooster knew the law. He took to lying in wait for me, never in the same place twice, but always somewhere on my path from the door to the roadside where, after they closed the little one room school down the road, I had to catch the school bus. After nearly missing the bus several times, which was not looked upon kindly by any parent who then had to drive you the twentyfive miles to the new district school, I became adept at timing

=£> 72 =£

my exit. I learned that if I waited until I saw the bus out the kitchen window, and then sprinted from the front door at precisely the right speed I could, using the element of surprise, leave that fowl choking on my dust. Staying far enough ahead of him to arrive at the road just as the bus opened its doors, I would sneer my contempt back at him as they closed. I was not so lucky on the return trip. Wise to my tactics, the rooster would no longer resort to subterfuge, but boldly scratch his feet directly in my path to the front porch, arch his neck, stiffen his wings, ruffle his dirty white feathers, and glare at me as if to say, "Okay. Come on, kid. Fve got you now, and one of us isn't going to come out of this alive." At least, to my nine year old mind, that was his message. Though the encounter my sisters found so extraordinarily funny has been mercifully blocked from my memory, I cannot seem to forget another day when I got off the bus to find that not only was my mother missing from her usual place of rescue, but, on managing to elude the rooster and reach the front door at full speed, I found it locked! Knowing my chances were slim, and my state near panic-induced paralysis, I fled back the way I had come. Taken by surprise, my adversary lost time in reversing direction, and was far enough behind that I was able to collect a fair sized branch that had fallen from the weeping willow under which I had fled. Its feathered branches draped about me might provide some measure of safety. And the branch which I now brandished just might prove the saving of my life, the weapon of my liberation, or at the very least, prevent me from losing an eye or two. My bravado fled as insecurely as it had come. The bird knew I was bluffing. The drooping willow branches, of course, bothered him not in the least, and as he slowly

73 c^b

advanced upon me, his beady eyes reflecting the imminent thrill of victory, Fm sure I saw him grin. No doubt he had noticed that I was experiencing the agony of defeat, as paralysis of both mind and body loomed large on my horizon. I knew I could not swing at him. I wanted desperately to kill the little buzzard with one mighty blow. I knew the lethal quality of a well-wielded willow switch. More than once I had experienced it first-hand, when some transgression occasioned my mother to direct me to go and retrieve from the tree the instrument of my own punishment. Looking back, it amazes me that I always came back with a switch in hand, knowing where I would soon feel its stinging wrath. But to risk returning without one would have been unthinkable. More often than not, I was in such hysterics by the time I returned with my switch that it was never applied. But I would agonize over the selection of my willow switch, debating, through tears already flowing in anticipation of what was to come, on exactly which size, shape, and age of switch was likely to inflict the least pain. I became adept, with practice. I knew that the oldest branches were likely to break with the first swing. But this would only make Mom angry, and then she was likely to choose her own for a second round. The thinnest, which I invariably chose before experience made me wiser, would sting like your backside had been sliced with a salty razor, and then disinfected with alcohol. The best choice, I had learned, was a branch of medium size, and only slightly aged. These didn't have much bite, and were not supple enough to last much beyond the fourth or fifth blow. But I digress. In spite of this expertise, I had not had a moment to consider the merits of the switch I collected for my own protection, nor its potential for disarming my foe, but simply grabbed the first available loose branch. So I faced the bird uncertain of my weapon, and it must have been apparent

74 c£>

by my hesitation. It did not matter, though, for I realize now that I could not have swung at him had I been wielding a machete. For the scene which I imagined in those few panicstricken seconds was one in which he flew at me as I swung, missed, and had no second opportunity as he landed in my face, knocking me backwards and claiming his ultimate victory, beak buried firmly in my eyeball. So I stood, afraid to miss, and therefore, unable to swing. With wings outstretched, he assumed his pre-attack stance, rising almost imperceptibly on his chicken feet. It was too much for me. The months of his harassment had taken their toll. I could not fight. I could not run. I believed myself to be alone, and about to die. Heedless of the fact that the nearest neighbours, and thus hope of any help, were at least a mile away, I opened my mouth, and the throat which had, with the rest of my body, been constricted with paralysis, released the sound for which the phrase "blood-curdling" was coined. Once released, it had a life of its own. There was no one to hear me, but I screamed. Indignity, when one is about to face the most horrible death one can conceive, is not a major consideration. I screamed and screamed. My body still would not move, and the switch I clutched at the ready remained quite ineffective. But if roosters can be said to have an expression, then this one was saying "What the hell... ?" Still arched forward, with wings outstretched in take-off pattern, he looked, in his uncertainty, a bird of a different feather. Fm sure he must have been rethinking the advisability, the necessity, even the wisdom of attacking this little person who had so obviously gone mad. Perhaps he was even considering the question of why he had ever felt it necessary to menace me in the first place. Obviously this had gone too far. In any case, whatever he was considering gave him pause, and that pause proved to be his undoing. I still

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75

e£

could not move (with the exception of my vocal cords), but the corner of my unblinking eye caught a brighter green through the willow's leaves that was my mother's favourite housedress. A few feet to the left and behind the uncertain bird, she had assessed the situation, and was advancing upon him. I have felt my mother's wrath. If I had been a noble child, I would at that moment have felt sorry for that unfortunate bird. He had threatened my mother's baby girl for the last time, and his fate was close at hand. I learned later that Mom had that day come down with the flu, and had locked the door to have a nap, intending to be up again before my return. She had overslept, and been awakened by my screams to find that the menace had cornered me yet again. That bird didn't have a chance. My mother, on a good day, was not to be trifled with. And this had not been a good day. I don't recall whether or not I stopped screaming at that point. I do know that with the hope of deliverance, my paralysis fled, and so, then, did I. The last thing I saw before gaining the safety of the great indoors was my mother's hand, made strong by years of the innumerable tasks involved in raising six children on a farm, wrap itself around that bird's outstretched neck and prepare to literally shake the stuffing out of it. My rooster friend was served up the very evening of his demise at my mother's hands. I believe he was stewed, and accompanied by her dumplings, the equal of which I have never tasted. No bird before or since, fried, roasted, baked, boiled, curried or creamed, has ever tasted so good.

77 =£>

an old flour bag really, hanging down in front of him. He was never without the sack, and sometimes would stop and rummage through it on his way to church. I knew it contained his Bible, whose tattered black covers and crumbling pages proclaimed constant usage. Years later, when he died, I had wanted so much to ask what else had been found in the sack, but by that time I was old enough to know the impropriety of such a question. Winter and summer, he wore a heavy brown jacket, opened at the front, which seemed to drag the stooped shoulders even closer to the ground. Wooden clothespins, whose purpose I could not divine, were clipped to one faded sleeve. An old cloth cap topped the grizzled face, whose sunken cheeks caved in upon themselves as he spoke. I never knew if he had hair, or was bald like most of the other Shadd men, because I never saw him without the cap. He would speak to everyone, anyone, or no one in particular. His speech was unintelligible to all but the few who made the effort to get close enough to hear his soft voice, and had grown accustomed to his murmured, garbled speech. Uncle Ira, who supplied his dwelling and his necessities, could interpret his mutterings, as could my father, who was his baby brother. I would stand beside my father as he talked to Uncle Henry after church, straining to decipher the earnest conversations by the one side of them I could make out. I knew by Daddy's responses that they spoke about religious things. Daddy said that Uncle Henry could quote chapter and verse of most parts of that Bible in his sack. When they conversed, it was not the ravings of a madman my father responded to, but the observations of an extremely insightful mind which had devoted all its energies to this subject. Some said he had been kicked in the head by a horse when

°£ 78 88

Mom had been in the hospital for three weeks now. The heart attack had been a major one, and they had come close to losing her. But the danger was past, and the doctor had said she'd be home in another week or so. Home to complete rest

o£> 91 92 «£>

One of the others was going to Fanshawe College, one was going to farm with his dad, and her best friend Laura was to be married this summer, and planned to start a family straight away. She twisted the promise ring on her finger, searching her memory for the reasons her parents had insisted she must get a degree before marrying Albert. Something about education being the only way for Blacks, coloured people in her father's terms, to get ahead. "Especially a woman," he'd said. "I don't want you to have to depend on a man to get you by. You have to have a trade, like your sisters." Her family roster included a nurse, a teacher, a bookkeeper, a doctor, and her brother, who was taking over the family business. But in her father's vernacular, they all had 'trades.' It was a lot to live up to, difficult acts to follow. Neither of her parents had more than a high school education. She wondered if he considered Mom dependent on him, and if he resented it, or if Mom did. They were questions she could not ask. Missy and Albert had been dating since she'd first been allowed to date at sixteen, and several times he had asked her to marry him. She'd put him off as long as possible, trying to determine her own feelings, and anticipating her parents' reaction. Then she had spent almost an entire month of evenings the winter past thinking up, discarding, and rethinking the best way to approach her mother. Marriage, relationships, sex, were all among the subjects they would never dream of discussing together. To approach the topic initially with an actual proposal required careful planning. In the end, though, she'd just gone into her mother's bedroom one night and announced "Albert wants to marry me," in her best conversational tone. Since Missy had yet to even finish high school, her mother, who had rarely shared a joke with her, apparently thought she was sharing one now, and

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responded accordingly. She said something to her daughter afterwards, but Missy never knew what it was, for she had fled to the safety of her own room, with the determination already in place that she would, indeed, marry Albert, in spite of her mother's response. Missy heard secondhand how Albert had then come to the house one afternoon while she was at school and performed the ritual of asking for her hand. Albert's family were not Canadian, and did not even live in the area. Though Missy's father generally distrusted foreigners, the gesture of respect made its impression. Permission had been given, if somewhat reluctantly, with the understanding that Missy was to first get her degree. In what field had yet to be decided, and the university calendars here in the drawer were evidence of possibilities unexplored. Recipes and apple dumplings long forgotten, she sought the solace of her bedroom, where she could wallow privately in the self-pity dragging at her heels. She desperately wanted someone to tell her what to do. The freedom to make her own decisions, which she thought she'd been longing for, had sneaked up behind her, and scared her half to death. She remembered Grandma's anger. She had remarked to Dad that it was good Missy would be there to take care of Mom when she came home from the hospital. Dad had wasted no subtlety, letting her know that Missy was not finished her education, and would not be required to sacrifice her life. Frail but feisty, Grandma had sputtered indignant, spouting the inadequacy of any "other arrangements" Dad suggested. Guilty and uncomfortable, Missy had listened to it all without comment, studying the floor somewhere between their two pairs of feet.

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She knew she should have spoken up. What a blessed breathing space such an excuse to prolong leaving home would have provided. Having witnessed the entire scene in silence, fearful that they might discover she had no plan at all, she was afraid even then to commit herself to one path or the other. She knew she'd never be able to tell Dad she would stay now. The opportunity had passed. He'd defended her right to leave, and by her silence she'd obligated herself to do so. The dilemma spun itself out in her head until the rampant vertigo of thoughts and emotions mesmerized her into the solace of sleep. The hurricane of big plans, discarded plans, new plans, and no plans settled, sometime during the next few days, in the path of least resistance. Missy acted quickly on her decision. Before the winds could whip the maelstrom to a frenzy again, she'd packed her eighteen years of belongings into the round-topped antique trunk which sat in the corner of her bedroom, adding one small suitcase for her more fragile possessions. Soon after, she bid her father a rather stiff and formal goodbye, promising to take care of herself and to give serious thought to furthering her education. The two minute monologue was perhaps the longest, certainly the most intense, conversation they had ever had. Though her dad did not approve of this course of action, he would not stop her. Missy didn't recognize the significance of his parting "You'll always have a home." She felt more akin to a soldier without a country, deserting the regiment before the last stand. She stopped by the hospital on her way, kissing her mother and performing the perfunctory goodbyes. A myriad of frightened and fleeing emotions fluttered close to the surface, and she dare not be more than precise. If one of those scraping wing tips scratched an exit, the entire flock might leave her screaming and skittering in their wake, flying about

95 °£

the room in squawking cacophony. As she left the ward and turned toward the elevators that would take her to the hospital's rear exit, she began the careful, calculated, yet totally subconscious chore that was becoming second nature: gathering her emotions back into the small and carefully locked trunk tucked away behind her memories. Deliberately, she focused her attention, and her hopes, on the man who waited for her in the car parked near the exit doors. And thought fleetingly that she desperately needed a cigarette.



'ride QAJowen o^ ^uxton \^our sisters in spirit/ \^our sisters in kind; your sisters in keart/ y\nd you^ sisters in ^nind; Your moir\ers, g^andKno+ne^s/ Lnei^ fTAotne^s long gone./ Lne wonaen of Oux^on •Have sf^engtn mdt lives on. ;A dete^n^ined spirit/ y\ purposeful will; ^/our kistory/ your -f-u+wre/ \^our goal fo |~ul|-ill.

~Co fne \voKnan oy Buxton/ •j^ler sigkts ever Kigkery T~or ske is a tkinker, y\ doer/ a fryer. Like ker trvofker before ker, 7\Jo sfuKnbling block .Us too kigk or too wide Por ske is a rock.

TTke first woKnen of Ouxton/ Frokn wkere tke.y kave gone •Have lejf an inkeritance: We skall carry on.

c£ 97 99 eg,

She was ninety-six, and had outlived her husband, one of her children, and all of her friends. In a rare moment of shared reflection, she'd expressed two sentiments on longevity that, in my comparative youth, I would never have otherwise considered. The first was that Syd, her husband, my grandfather, had had no business dying and leaving her here alone. It quite annoyed her that he'd done so. The second was to protest the fact that she was still here, when all her friends had gone on. "I wonder what I'm left here for." Here in the nursing home she was out of her element. Always an independent woman, she had refused to allow the county to provide even the limited help of an occasional travelling homemaker, and had managed alone since Grandpa's death, with the assistance of her two remaining children, and the grandchildren who lived nearby. But in this place thirty minutes drive from the farm she had shared with Syd for much of her long life, there was little she could do for herself. The nurses, overworked with so many wheelchair-bound old men and women in various stages of senility, had neither the time nor the patience to allow independence. And so she existed, with only the incessant and unintelligible jabbering of her bed-bound roommate for company between her family's visits, waiting to join her husband once more. She had grown up on the 5th Concession in Raleigh, then known as the Raleigh Plains. Minetta's father, Elbert Snarling Dyke, was the son of a slave woman and the white man who owned her. Born into slavery, young Elbert had been brought to the Elgin Settlement as a child and given his freedom by his owner, who was also his father. One of the first settlers here, Elbert became active in the community, helping to lay out the plans for the Elgin Settlement. He returned, at age eighteen, to

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U could point to one ;And know from wkence 114 °£>

Will yow say tkat 148

weighed against the values of tradition. Alcohol was in demand, and would draw a larger crowd. In the end, expediency won out, and the beer tent was raised amid sighs and misgivings. Another signal that Buxton was being moved into another era, and long-standing traditions moved aside to make way for progress. Change is inevitable, and progress, I suppose, a desirable state. But the compromise is a loss: of a way of life, an indefinable spirit, a bonding of community that, once gone, may not be replaced, rebuilt, or rekindled. Successive generations will benefit from the strength of those who came before. But they may not have what we had here. The circumstances which combined to create this atmosphere in a little patch of swampy bushland will, God willing, never be duplicated. Our children may no longer need Buxton's refuge, no longer want its solace from the world. We have arrived at a point where their stars can shine with the brightest in the universe and compete for their own space, and that is progress. But in all their glory, will they remember why they are strong? Will Scotty's children feel any attachment to this place, know its people, share its spirit? Will they know why we'd "rather live in Buxton than in Birmingham"? Or will it be easier to read its history when they are grown, and say, "Yes, I think my grandfather was from around there," and never have to face the ghosts of ancestors, who built the dreams we take now as our due.

°£ 149 ejZb

^oots & QAAngs C7f C7 could give you many tkings/ ilJ'd give you gold and silver icings Or knowledge tkat C7've gained witk years: ~Uke gift of smi I ing tkrougk tke tears/ Confidences courage,, determination/ J_augkter and spirit and love of creation; Wrapped up in a box witk. a DOW/ iTT'd give "Co you tkese gifts to keep for as long as you live.

"«ITf- «U could give you just two tkings/ One would be Roots/ tke otker/ Wings." T^oots/ not to tie you to tke ground/ T3ut to guide you to wkere your fulfillment is found. ~Tke nourisking start/ tke firfrv foundation; ~Tke source of your inner determination. Wings to soar over obstacles/ wings to fly free/ Wings to glide to tke keigkts of tke best you can be. jAnd wken obstacles loom/ from your Roots grows a kand Providing a strong/ sturdy/ safe place, to land. «Z7'd ckoose tkese two tkings for tke gifts tkat are best/ Por witk Roots and witk Wings/ you'll find all tke rest.

^(.e find (jA 7\)ew Beginning)